When the Wind Blows - James Patterson [44]
“It won’t work,” the man said. “You can’t move that fast.” Suddenly, he drew a pistol like some kind of Western gunslinger. He pointed it at the doctor’s face.
“What do you want from me?” Dr. Richard Andreossi’s mind flashed through the full grid of logical possibilities. He was a bright man and his brain was operating at full capacity.
“Nothing. Not a thing,” said the man with the gun, a Smith & Wesson semiautomatic. “There’s nothing you can do now. Two of the children have escaped from the School. You let us down at the worst possible time, Doctor.”
Suddenly, Dr. Andreossi confronted the possibility that he was about to die. His body went cold. His head became light. His insides were screaming Sam, Sam, Sam.
“My baby?” he whispered. “On the couch.”
“Don’t worry. Megwin will be home soon,” said the cold-eyed gunman. “Your baby will be fine. We wouldn’t harm your baby. We aren’t monsters.”
Then Harding Thomas pulled the trigger three times.
Chapter 45
MAX WAS SERIOUSLY AFRAID, but she was determined not to let her fear stop her from doing the right thing. She had to act grown-up now. She had to return to the scene of the crimes; she was headed home. She needed to see if Matthew was being held there, and some other worrisome stuff, too. Important stuff, no way around it, no more dodging the bullet. Home again, home again.
Of course, flying at night, without the help of radar or autopilot, was super dangerous and maybe not the smartest thing she’d ever done in her life. It was cloudy and threatening to rain, and she sure wished the light was better.
Watch out! She nearly crashed skull-first into a hill as she banked out of a raggedy-assed patch of fog. She rolled quickly to the left, flapped her wings hard and strong. Then she rose up above the cool, smoky air. Close call. Too close.
She was thinking about the School now, couldn’t help it. She knew from “Uncle” Thomas that the model for the way it ran was military schools. She also knew that Thomas had been a soldier at one time, that he’d taught at the Air Force Academy, even that he had grown-up children of his own. She and Matthew lived in a small dormitory. Everything in their lives had been on a tight, no-nonsense schedule: breakfast, study, testing, exercise, lunch, work projects, study, more testing, dinner, study, then bed. Then do it all over again. Then do it again. Do it again.
It was always like that until Mrs. Beattie came. She did school-work with them as well as all the irritating testing, but she also introduced them to an amazing concept: playtime. Mrs. Beattie had never been in the military. They had loved her. Until Mrs. Beattie was put to sleep.
Around the time Mrs. Beattie came, there had been other improvements as well. A “boxcar” from the Boxcar Children series was installed. So was a new Apple computer. And on the weekends they got to go to woodworking and an art studio. Max had the idea that “art” was part of the constant testing, but she didn’t care. If the tests were more fun, she wouldn’t have minded them either.
The School used the latest technology—it was an AMP Smart House, for one thing, which was pretty neat, and convenient, and efficient of course. All the lights, thermostats, and door locks were on a tight schedule, too. They were always watched by a video security system. Guards could call in to their cell telephones to open doors, even to run a bath or shower.
Maybe that was why she loved her new freedom so much.
Suddenly, she could see the School down below. She was almost home again. She flew easily, her wings very stable now. Then she power-dived toward the cluster of familiar buildings. This was it—now-or-never time. Put up or shut up, Maximum.
Something was wrong—she could see it immediately. She pulled out of her dive, fluttered, almost stalled out, and then set down quietly in the woods.
She could feel the skin on her neck and back prickling with fear. She gasped, choked, couldn’t quite catch her breath. Oh God, oh God, this was her worst fear.
Max watched several